


A Routine Kidnapping

by buttcat



Series: A Dangerous Affair [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcat/pseuds/buttcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is kidnapped. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Routine Kidnapping

**Author's Note:**

> this is what a scavenger's daughter looks like: https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQun1WQx8gEgQeofhjLz5rBbeGAAvbcCUcgtmZ2gJE9S1Z6EY_SuA . basically the top bit swings down until whoever's in it is squished! c: it was considered to be the perfect complement to the rack, which stretched instead of crushed. it wasn't actually used very much though! 
> 
> (this is the gross one. you have been warned.)

It took a very long time for John to wake up fully. 

Before anything else, he was cognizant of the pain. Everything hurt. Even in the hazy depths of his half-conscious mind, he could feel his entire body throbbing rhythmically against the ground, his wrists and ankles especially. He had a massive, splitting headache that bloomed out from the back of his skull and wrapped around to his temples. Because of it he couldn't quite see straight, and it took a few disoriented moments for him to identify his surroundings: brick walls, dirty; old wooden floor, thick with dust in the corners; rusty shovel in the corner; bits of green mud-spattered tarp tied across the doorway in lieu of an actual door. 

His hands were tied tightly together behind him and lashed to a stake in the wall. His feet were tied at the ankles. He couldn't quite see, but he had enough sensation in his limbs to feel the abrasions on his skin around and beneath where the ropes were tied. Friction and rough handling had no doubt torn them open. He hoped Sherlock'd be forward-thinking enough to bring antiseptic when he came to get him.

Probably not, though.

John sighed and wriggled himself over to the wall. He scooted up against it until he was propped up in some semblance of a sitting position and prepared himself for the next few monotonous hours. 

It wasn't the first time this sort of thing had happened. Sherlock had a lot of enemies, and he was the detective's closest - well, _only,_ to be more accurate - friend. He had a fairly large target on his back. It was only a matter of time, really. 

It wasn't as if he'd gotten used to it, that it'd become a humdrum occurrence to him now that he was a seasoned kidnappee, but he was certainly calmer than he had been - he'd sobbed into Sherlock's jacket the first time it'd happened. The second time, he'd been shaken, but Sherlock had shown up within half an hour and it'd all been peachy. The third time was practically routine, and he was back into Sherlock's arms before the second hour had passed. 

Most of all, it was just terribly boring. There wasn't anything to _do_ in this sort of situation except sit and wait. If he'd been able to move his arms a bit better, he'd doodle in the dirt on the floor, but they were tied quite well. This position made him feel rather ridiculous. He wanted to go _home_. He'd just popped out to grab some groceries, for goodness' sake, and he was very tired and hungry. 

They hadn't had much food in the house for three or four days now, excepting a box of cinnamon biscuits John had eaten yesterday in one go. They were in the midst of a very curious case - right off the tail of a cannibalistic serial killer, of all things- and with all the running about they'd been doing he hadn't had the time to sleep, or eat, or shop. When he left the flat, Sherlock had been lying on the sofa, eyes wide open, nicotine patches plastered up to the elbow on both arms. 

He was utterly engrossed in this case. He'd even made a little collage of sorts on the wall with the crime-scene photos of the victims. Lestrade hadn't wanted him to keep them, but he'd snuck them out of The Yard anyway, and now they were arranged lovingly next to the mantelpiece.

They were grisly. The poor sods had been crushed to death, folded practically in half by what amounted to a giant round hinge. Six people, now - six people had been forced to crouch, chins to their knees, underneath a heavy bit of metal that'd slowly, maddeningly lowered down upon them until their spines snapped and their skulls cracked. 

This, of course, was borne from Sherlock's quick deductions, as the device itself was missing from the scene. A "scavenger's daughter", Sherlock called it. It's what made the case so interesting in the first place - how was the thing transported so quickly? Who had the resources to recreate ridiculous medieval torture devices for the sole purpose of murder? And, most importantly, _why?_ It certainly wasn't convenient. 

John turned the case over in his mind as he waited. He'd been over it a hundred times, and every possible solution seemed more ludicrous than the last. His headache was getting better, though, which was nice. The back of his head was sticky and matted where they'd hit him, and he quietly hoped Sherlock would give no quarter to the idiots who'd done this.

It was then that the green tarp was swept aside and the aforementioned idiots strolled in.

 

~~~~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~

"John, pencil." 

A moment passed. 

"John. Could you _kindly_ pass me a pencil."

Again, a long pause. Sherlock looked up from the table with a disgusted sigh. The man was never there when he needed him. 

Where'd he gone off to, anyway? Sherlock checked his phone - it was three am. Maybe for some takeout. 

He did hope he'd be back soon. He'd made some progress - he was nearly certain they were dealing with another smuggling ring of a sort. There just wasn't any damned _evidence._ Just a body.

What were the facts? He knew the victims must have known their murderers, trusted them. They'd gone with them into the place they'd later be murdered in - invariably an abandoned building, out of the way of residential districts, but daringly close to active industrial zones - without struggle or fuss. It wasn't until they were restrained that they realized their captor's intentions, and by then it was too late. So - a mentor, perhaps? A father figure, a leader, someone trustworthy. The victim did something wrong, displeased their boss, and then - pancaked. 

All the victims were young, late twenties at most. Female and male. Dressed in business attire, but not very expensive or flashy - the kind a manager in an office might wear. However, one of the women was wearing large diamond earrings, and the other had several costly rings on her fingers and a pair of new Valentino pumps that were quite nice, if a bit squashed. Two of the men were wearing watches that were worth a small fortune, and they were all wearing pricey designer ties. So whatever business they were in was at least somewhat lucrative, and probably illegal enough that they were attempting to hide their success from their coworkers. 

And then there was the method of death. It'd been slow, and painful. Whoever had done it had wanted to punish. And they hadn't even tried to hide the bodies - they'd wanted to send a message. To whom? The fact that the murders had all taken place within a week signified that something major had happened, something the higher-ups didn't like. The victims were most likely middle-managers, unfortunate enough to be caught doing - what? And why a scavenger's daughter, of all things? Was there some sort of underground trading ring that dealt in dated torture artifacts? It had to be a new piece of equipment, obviously, so where had it come from? Who had unlimited access to metal, to raw materials, to sufficient tools - 

Sherlock's brain sparked. It was a bit of a long shot, but what if - _what if -_

He needed some construction permits, building records, anything. He texted John, then called Lestrade - no answer. He groaned. He texted John again.

_Hurry home. SH_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~ ~~ ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It didn't take John very long to realize something wasn't right. The men - four of them, all smoking - had pulled him out of his tarp room and tossed him into a wooden chair. They untied his hands for no more than a minute, and the rush of blood to his fingertips was nearly painful, before they tied them palm-down to the arms of the chair. Now that his hands were in front of him, he could see just how extensive the damage to his wrists was. They'd been rubbed raw and red by the ropes, and tiny round red blossoms of blood had seeped through the cuffs of his sleeves here and there. 

This was certainly new. Usually he was just left in a back room somewhere, and he rarely got any company. But here were these four men, smoking, leering at him, waiting for something. They stood a few feet away from his chair, watching the door at the far side of the room.

It was clear now that the building they were in was unfinished. The walls weren't finished yet in this room, so John could see through their skeletal interiors to the sky outside. They were on the fourth or fifth floor at least, and it was windy, and loud. He could hear men shouting to each other, machines tearing at the earth, hammers knocking things into place. It seemed familiar to him, though he wasn't sure why exactly. 

Eventually the door at the end of the room opened, and a well-dressed man wandered through, an enormous duffel bag in hand. He was slight and wiry, clean-shaven, early thirties. He was smoking as well. 

He sauntered over and dropped the bag carelessly on the ground. When it landed, John heard metal hit metal. 

"John Watson, is it? Today isn't your day, I'm afraid." 

From the bag, he took a tripod and a camera. He made a show of setting it up, positioning it carefully, peering through the lens to make certain he had a clear shot. 

"There we are. You don't mind if I tape this, hm? Of course not." 

He closed in on John, dragging the bag behind him, sucking deeply on his cigarette the entire time. Its tip flared up bright orange and clumps of ash drifted down to the concrete floor. _Evidence,_ thought John dazedly. He felt as if his brain was full of cotton fluff. 

"Thing is, your friend Sherlock has been going about sticking his nose into our business," the man said, bending down to John's level. "We figured it was in everyone's best interests to send him a bit of a warning before he digs himself in too deep." 

The man reached into the bag again, and pulled out a large metal device. It somewhat resembled a nutcracker. John's stomach dropped. 

The man laughed heartily. "I take it you know what this is?" 

John did, indeed, know what it was. Of _course_ he'd recognized the location earlier - it was just like the places where the bodies had been found. Unfinished buildings. Construction sites. And there, in the man's hands - 

"The common name is 'thumbscrew'. They were also nicknamed 'pilliwinks', but that's hardly threatening, isn't it? Did you know they were used well into the eighteenth century, mostly to punish slaves?" He held it up, scrutinizing it. "Humans are such cruel, clever creatures, don't you think? We've designed such complicated, ingenious methods to hurt, to destroy - it's incredible."

He dropped it to the floor and kicked it away with the side of his foot. It slid a few feet, clattering as it went. John let out a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. 

The man laughed again.

"You didn't really think I'd use _those,_ did you? So boring. So cosmopolitan. Besides, I wouldn't want to ruin those fingers, would I?" He shook his head. "It'd be a crying shame." 

And then the man put out his cigarette on John's neck. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ ~ 

It was 7:30 in the morning and John still hadn't answered his text. Sherlock was beginning to worry. He grabbed his coat, looped his scarf about his neck, tromped down the steps and was about to go out the door when he noticed the manila envelope sitting on the front stoop. 

He wasn't sure how long it'd been there. It didn't bear any postage, no return address. Just "S HOLMES" written in thick red ink across the center in a blocky, messy hand. 

Sherlock picked it up, weighing it in his hand. It was very light. He could feel what seemed to be a CD case through the paper.

John forgotten for the moment, envelope in hand, he wandered back into the flat. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John stared steadily at the scraps of dark sky he saw through the walls. _It's a very clear night tonight,_ he thought absently. Beside him, on a tray, his kidnapper had laid out a set of five thin metal wedges. He was trying very hard not to look at them. 

"Okay, then,"the man said. He was twirling a little hammer between the fingers of his right hand. "Let's get started, shall we?"

The first one went quick. The wedge was slid underneath the nail of his index finger - he tried to inch it away, but the man pushed it down in place - and the hammer was brought down on its tip. John could feel the plate of his nail tear away from its bed, and he gagged down a yell, clenching his teeth against the pain. Blood welled up from underneath the nail and trickled down, pooling in the cleft between his fingers. 

The second one wasn't as swift. The wedge was put into place beneath his middle finger, and the man tapped the hammer lightly - once, twice, three times - and this time the nail cracked and splintered at the middle before it tore away wetly. 

It was an odd, raw sort of pain, a kind he hadn't really experienced before. Without his nails, his fingers felt naked, and when the wind rushed through the gaps in the walls he could feel it right down to the bones in his hands. The man took his time between the second and third fingers, making certain the wedge had been driven up to the cuticle. The nail on his ring finger splintered in the same way as the one on his middle finger had. It dug into his exposed flesh, and he twisted and turned in agony on the chair, panting heavily - though he kept silent.

His little finger definitely broke. John couldn't help but let out a little whimper when he felt the bone jam and twist. 

The chair was slick with blood beneath his hand. It dripped onto the leg of his trousers, seeping into the fabric. It was a shame, he thought, the small part of his mind that hadn't been consumed by pain struggling to keep itself sane. They'd fit him quite comfortably. This job had lost him far too many articles of clothing to violent wear and tear. Sherlock'd owe him a shopping trip when he returned.

The man had picked up the last wedge from the tray, and John steeled himself for the impact. Before he placed it in position, however, he gestured to his men. 

"Turn the camera on, would you?" 

They obliged. 

John felt drained. It hadn't been on this entire time? His stoicism had been for naught. And since they'd hardly bother to switch the camera on to record only a few minutes of footage, he had the sinking feeling that they were far from done with him.

He was correct. With a dramatic flourish, the man placed the final wedge underneath John's thumbnail, and tapped the little hammer. Once - twice - three times - four times - 

The nail rose from its bed, slowly and stickily. It hurt considerably more than the other fingers had, and this time it was much harder to bite back a yell. He snapped his head to the side and clenched his teeth with the force of the effort. Bile rose in the back of his throat. He didn't dare look down at his hand. 

 

The man withdrew a second set of wedges from the bag, and John was unable to hold back a small, strangled cry. He really shouldn't have been so surprised. The little red light on the camera blinked on and off, on and off, daring him to break down. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Inside the envelope was a silver DVD - no markings. Sherlock popped it into his laptop.

The first five or so minutes were nothing but a black screen. Sherlock forwarded through this impatiently. 

And then - John. 

His heart nearly stopped. His doctor was bleeding heavily, mangled hand spread out on the arm of a chair. There was a man in front of him: decent suit, hair slicked back, expensive tie. Sherlock saw the wedge he held, and the hammer, and made the connection instantly. Whoever had kidnapped John, whoever this person was who was torturing him right now, was the very same individual who'd inflicted the scavenger's daughter upon the others. 

Much like those murders, Sherlock was positive this too was a warning. He was sure of it. The man didn't have to say anything to make it clear; that the footage existed at all was proof. Why else would they bother to record it? The message was clear. 

He could only hope they spared John the scavenger's daughter in the end. 

The video quality was poor, but good enough that he was fully aware of the procedure. He watched in horror his friend's thumbnail was levered up bit by bit. 

Poor John. Poor, brave, sweet John. The doctor was doing his best not to scream, but the way he slumped over after the wedge was removed spoke volumes. The man moved on to his other hand with a fresh set of wedges, taking his sweet time. When he hit the ring finger, the hammer slammed down hard enough to force it into an unnatural angle, and John cried out for the first time. The sound filled him with horror. 

Finally, the thumbnail. It refused to let go without a fight, and it took the man quite a bit of pushing and prodding to wrench it up. John was yelling in pain. 

The man dropped the hammer, and it bounced on the floor - concrete, unfinished, Sherlock noted - and slunk up close to the camera. 

"I'm sure you get the picture, Mister Holmes," he said, his voice gravelly. "Doctor Watson will be returned to you alive in a week's time. Unless, of course, you continue your investigation of those... bodies that have been found. I suggest very strongly that you back out immediately. Or things will get much worse." He turned so that John was included in the frame. He was pale as a sheet, and breathing hard. His shoulders were shaking. "Did you know, Mister Holmes, that a person can survive a tryst with the scavenger's daughter? It's a very delicate balance. Some people die from the shock anyway - but Doctor Watson is a trooper, isn't he? I think he'd do just fine." He leaned back into the camera, filling the frame with his face. "We anxiously await your reply."

The video ended abruptly. Sherlock sat back. That was it, then? To get John back, he'd have to give up the case. Bloody shame.

Or at least, it would be, if he planned to follow their instructions in the least. First of all, he didn't intend to leave John in the hands of these psychopaths for an entire week, and second of all, the case really was terribly interesting. It'd be heartbreaking if he had to drop it now. If his best friend's life hadn't been on the line, he might have even been excited.

 

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~ ~~~~~ ~~

They hadn't bothered to bind his hands afterwards, and for that John was grateful. He wasn't about to run anywhere, anyway, as two of the men had stayed behind to watch him. He could see their dark silhouettes just outside the green tarp that hung from the ceiling. The man who'd done it to him had left immediately afterwards, taking his duffel bag with him. 

His hands felt as if they were aflame. They pulsed with a great white heat that tore at the edges of his consciousness and made the floor tip underneath him with its intensity. He couldn't bear to look at them, though he'd earlier forced himself to struggle out of his shirt and, to the best of his abilities, bind it around his hands to staunch the flow of blood. There was little else he could do. The doctor part of his brain knew he should probably attempt to fashion some sort of splint for his two broken fingers, but the civilian part of his brain screamed in agony whenever he attempted to move his hands, and he just couldn't bring himself to do it.

It was hard to think. His thoughts were all muddled from the pain, and they drifted in and out of his mind like loose ships. He wondered vaguely if he'd been concussed during that initial attack. He wondered if he would be able to use his hands again. He wondered if he was going to die. 

The images of the victims floated into his thoughts - their eyes bulging, skulls caved in at the back, blood running from their ears and noses, white fragments of bone poking through the skin of their backs. He wondered if Sherlock'd put his picture up next to the mantle too, alongside the others. His vision began to blur as, shamefully, he began to cry. _Sherlock. I don't want to leave you. I want to go home, Sherlock._ He burrowed his head into his shoulder, curled himself up as tight as he could stand, and sobbed quietly until, exhausted, he fell asleep. 

~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~

It was 7:45 when Lestrade had finally texted him back, and it was 7:47 when Sherlock knew exactly where to look. He rang Lestrade, told him to send an ambulance, and hailed a taxi. _Hold on there, John._

That they'd sent a video at all had been a massive mistake. They'd practically put a beacon over the place. He'd only had to use his ears and eyes in combination with the information Lestrade had sent him, and he had a clear destination. Most obviously apparent was they were keeping John in a building in the midst of construction. It wasn't an abandoned project - he could hear, faintly, the clatter of a construction site in the background, so either it or something quite close to it was still being worked on. Since they were working at night, it meant they weren't near enough to residential areas to worry about bothering any sleeping families - again, a pattern that had been present in the other murders. 

It was odd, though, that they'd been bold enough to hurt John so close to an active construction site. They couldn't have predicted he would've tried to stay quiet - and, even if they did, what about the other murders? They were all near active sites as well, and it was very unlikely that someone who was slowly being crushed alive would have been silent. The only explanation was that the people working at the sites were in on it - or, more likely, behind it. It was feasible, after all, that a construction company would have access to the materials one would need to build antiquated torture devices in the twenty-first century. Which is why, much earlier, Sherlock had texted Lestrade to send him the names of the companies overseeing the building sites that had been near the murders. One in particular popped up more often than not. To further implicate the company in the murders, the man who had appeared on the video had closely resembled a high-ranking partner in the company, whose picture was displayed very prominently on their ABOUT page. 

From there, it was simple. He knew it had to be somewhere secluded, both for privacy reasons and for the fact that he'd seen forest and unfettered sky through the unfinished building walls. The same glance outside allowed him to know that it had to have at least four stories. It had to be currently active, or very, very close to another currently active site. And, finally, it needed to be contracted underneath that particular company. There was only one building that fit all those requirements. 

He found he was moving erratically in the cab, leaning in towards the driver and craning his neck to look out the front window. The man who'd taken his friend had been right - John was tough. Logically, Sherlock shouldn't be worried about him in the slightest. The man had been an army doctor, after all. He knew how to take care of himself, and he was probably used to the pain. He'd carried himself very heroically in the recording, considering his circumstances. 

But even knowing all this, his emotions were overriding his logic, and he found himself urging the taxi driver onward, white-knuckling the lip of his seat. It was silly. He'd never had trouble asserting control over his emotions earlier in his life, but ever since he'd met John, he'd found it more and more difficult to keep them in check. It wasn't sensible to love the man as much as he did, but here he was. And now that he had a culprit, he could feel a little coal of anger burning white-hot in his gut. He was out for blood. 

He had the cab stop a good ways away from the construction site, making his way up to the building proper on foot. He didn't want to alarm them, after all. He couldn't chance the idiots panicking and shooting his John. 

He crept around the perimeter of the building. Just as he thought, there - four stories up, a light. The rest of the building was pitch black, and the effect was rather eerie. He didn't fancy the climb up, but John was waiting for him. He hadn't the time to jump at shadows.

The stairs in the building had no railing, and they were worryingly rickety. He tried to make as little noise as possible, but it was nigh impossible. He hoped the cursing and clatter of the construction workers one building over would cover it up. 

And then, eight flights of stairs later, he was there. There was a door, and underneath it, a sliver of light peeked through. He stood away from it so as not to cast a shadow.

There were corridors to the right that wrapped around the lit room, and he slipped down them, peering through the missing plaster. Two men, both a good size, both with guns. He could see the chair where John had been tied to just a few feet in front of them, and the blood that stained its arms and the concrete below it. His stomach twisted angrily. Those men, they were _dead._

He wished he'd thought to take John's pistol, and then realized what a silly thought it'd been - he was barely able to hit a still target, let alone two moving ones that were also armed, and probably professionally trained, at that. 

As he reached the end of the hallway, he noticed he could see into the room behind him. He could make someone out, their head tucked into their chest, their knees pulled up nearly as far, their bare side rising and falling raggedly. His gut twisted with relief, and then anger. If he turned his body _just so,_ and caved in his chest, he might just be able to fit through these two gaps in the wall, and - 

He tumbled through. The men in front of the tarp shifted at the noise, but did nothing else. John was out cold. Sherlock reached to check his pulse, just in case, and saw the bloodied shirt wrapped about his ruined hands. His blood boiled. They hadn't even _tried_ to take care of him afterwards. 

It was then that he noticed the shovel sitting in the corner.

The first one went down easy. The second had been alerted by his first blow, but he'd caught him with a backswing before he'd been able to get his pistol up in time. For good measure, Sherlock hit him in the head again, and gave the other man a kick to the ribs. They were both out cold. He eyed a nearby window longingly, but thought better of it. Instead, he phoned Lestrade. 

"We'll need an ambulance," he said. And then he crouched down next to John and waited, watching the precious rise and fall of his chest, the sweet furrows in his brow. 

He promised himself he'd never let his doctor out of his sight again.


End file.
